Oath Keeper
by Darth Wannabe
Summary: Tywin Lannister chooses to marry Sansa to his son, Jaime.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Oath Keeper

**Author: **Darth Wannabe

**Disclaimer: **All of the following characters belong to George R.R. Martin. I am receiving no profit from any of this. This is just for people's enjoyment.

**Summary: **Tywin Lannister chooses to marry Sansa to his son, Jaime.

**Note**: The first few chapters have parts of the books interwoven into them. Beyond this, Jaime and Sansa's stories will stray farther from the books, although the overall story arc beyond them will remain relatively the same.

**Rating: **M

**Chapter 1: Tyrion**

**(The beginning of this chapter is from A Storm of Swords)**

"Lord Petyr continues to demonstrate his loyalty," Ser Kevan said at his brother's nod. "Only yesterday he brought word of a Tyrell plot to spirit Sansa Stark off to Highgarden for a 'visit,' and there marry her to Lord Mace's eldest son, Willas."

"Littlefinger brought you word?" Tyrion leaned against the table. "Not our master of whisperers? How interesting."

Cersei looked at their uncle in disbelief. "Sansa is my hostage. She goes nowhere without my leave."

"Leave you must perforce grant, should Lord Tyrell ask," their father pointed out. "To refuse him would be tantamount to declaring that we did not trust him. He would take offense."

"Let him. What do we care?"

_Bloody fool_, thought Tyrion. "Sweet sister," he explained patiently, "offend Tyrell and you offend Redwyne, Tarly, Rowan, and Hightower as well, and perhaps start them wondering whether Robb Stark might not be more accommodating of their desires."

"I will not have the rose and the direwolf in bed together," declared Lord Tywin. "We must forestall him."

"How?" asked Cersei.

"By marriage. Yours, to begin with."

It came so suddenly that Cersei could only stare for a moment. Then her cheeks reddened as if she had been slapped. "No. Not again. I will not."

"Your Grace," said Ser Kevan, courteously, "you are a young woman, still fair and fertile. Surely you cannot wish to spend the rest of your days alone? And a new marriage would put to rest this talk of incest for good and all."

"So long as you remain unwed, you allow Stannis to spread his disgusting slander," Lord Tywin told his daughter. "You must have a new husband in your bed, to father children on you."

"Three children is quite sufficient. I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, not a brood mare! The Queen Regent!"

"You are my daughter and will do as I command."

She stood. "I will not sit here and listen to this-"

"You will if you wish to have any voice in the choice of your next husband," Lord Tywin said calmly.

When she hesitated, then sat, Tyrion knew she was lost, despite her loud declaration of, "I will not marry again!"

"You will marry and you will breed. Every child you birth makes Stannis more a liar." Their father's eyes seemed to pin her to her chair. "Mace Tyrell, Paxter Redwyne, and Doran Martell are wed to younger women likely to outlive them. Balon Greyjoy's wife is elderly and failing, but such a match would commit us to an alliance with the Iron Islands, and I am still uncertain whether that would be our wisest course."

"No," Cersei said from between white lips. "No, no, no."

Tyrion could not quite suppress the grin that came to his lips at the thought of packing his sister off to Pyke. _Just when I was about to give up praying, some sweet god gives me this._

Lord Tywin went on. "Oberyn Martell might suit, but the Tyrells would take that very ill. So we must look to the sons. I assume you do not object to wedding a man younger than yourself?"

"I object to wedding any-"

"I have considered the Redwyne twins, Theon Greyjoy, Quentyn Martell, and a number of others. But our alliance with Highgarden was the sword that broke Stannis. It should be tempered and made stronger. Ser Loras has taken the white and Ser Garlan is wed to one of the Fossoways, but there remains the eldest son, the boy they scheme to wed to Sansa Stark."

_Willas Tyrell_. Tyrion was taking a wicked pleasure in Cersei's helpless fury. "That would be the cripple," he said.

Their father chilled him with a look. "Willas is heir to Highgarden, and by all reports a mild and courtly young man, fond of reading books and looking at the stars. He has a passion for breeding animals as well, and owns the finest hounds, hawks, and horses in the Seven Kingdoms."

_A perfect match_, mused Tyrion. _Cersei also has a passion for breeding._ He pitied poor Willas Tyrell, and did not know whether he wanted to laugh at his sister or weep for her.

"The Tyrell heir would be my choice," Lord Tywin concluded, "but if you would prefer another, I will hear your reasons."

"That is so very kind of you, Father," Cersei said with icy courtesy. "It is such a difficult choice you give me. Who would I sooner take to bed, the old squid or the crippled dog boy? I shall need a few days to consider. Do I have your leave to go?"

_You are the queen, _Tyrion wanted to tell her. _He ought to be begging leave of you._

"Go," their father said. "We shall talk again after you have composed yourself. Remember your duty."

Cersei swept swiftly from the room, her rage plain to see. _Yet in the end she will do as Father bid_. She had proved that with Robert. _Though there is Jaime to consider_. Their brother had been much younger when Cersei wed the first time; he might not acquiesce to a second marriage quite so easily. The unfortunate Willas Tyrell was like to contract a sudden fatal case of sword-through-bowels, which could rather sour the alliance between Highgarden and Casterly Rock. _I should say something, but what? Pardon me, Father, but it's our brother she wants to marry?_

"Even if Lord Tyrell agrees to a match between Cersei and his son, there is still the matter of Sansa Stark," he said instead. "Marry her to another and Highgarden shall consider it an affront."

"Lord Tyrell will not broach the matter of the Stark girl until after Joffrey's wedding. If Sansa is wed before that, how can he take offense, when he gave us no hint of his intentions?"

Tyrion rubbed at the raw stub of his nose. The scar tissue itched abominably sometimes. "And who shall the girl marry? A Lannister, I presume." _And not me,_ he thought. The northern lords would never accept him.

"It is time that your brother wed," his father said, "and fulfilled his duty to House Lannister."

Tyrion's mouth twisted into a grimace. "Perhaps you've forgotten, Father, but Jaime is a member of the Kingsguard. They are sworn to never marry or so I've heard."

"Precedent was set once your sister dismissed Selmy. A suitable gift to the Faith should persuade the High Septon to release Jaime from his vows."

"And convince him to wed Sansa Stark to an absent groom?"

"There is precedent for that as well," his father stated. "I had hoped for your brother's return, but it is too dangerous to wait as this business with the Tyrells should attest."

_Sansa and Jaime_, Tyrion mused. Soft-spoken sweet-smelling Sansa, who loved silks, songs, chivalry, and tall gallant knights with handsome faces. She could love his brother in time. _The Tully words are _Family, Duty, Honor,_ and Sansa is more Tully than Stark_, he thought. _Jaime, on the other hand, will be furious when he returns_. "A marriage that is not consummated can be set aside," he reminded his father and uncle, "and Jaime has shown little interest in either castles or young girls."

Candlelight gleamed from the gold flecks in Lord Tywin's eyes. "Then you must convince him of the necessity."

At Tyrion's disbelieving look, Ser Kevan added, "Jaime loves you. When he heard that you had been taken by Catelyn Stark, he attacked Eddard Stark and slew three of his men. He will listen to you."

Jaime would listen to his words, laugh, and then tell him that wars were better won with swords. His brother cared little for the realm and even less for Casterly Rock. Almost everything he did was for Cersei. _If I told him that Cersei was a faithless whore_…Such a comment would only enrage his brother further and accomplish nothing, he decided. Jaime would despise knowing that their sister had shared another man's bed.

Tyrion perched straighter in his chair at the thought. "Jaime has likely not heard about these rumors of incest. He will seek to disprove these lies, and how better than to give Sansa Stark trueborn sons?" His father nodded for him to continue. "With Jaime wed, these traitorous claims against Joffrey will seem foolish, and my sweet sister, who still mourns for Robert, will need not marry again so soon."

"I agree," Ser Kevan stated before Lord Tywin could respond. "None would expect Her Grace to marry so soon after her husband's death. And while such a marriage will strengthen our bonds to Highgarden, it might weaken the rest."

Tyrion suspected that this concern had been discussed before. His father seemed to have no objection to either his or his uncle's words. _Perhaps my uncle is not the simpleton that he has always appeared to be_.

"Very well, I shall consider this," his father finally said. "What else must be discussed, Kevan?"

"We must name a new Kingsguard and Lord Commander."

"Not Ser Meryn," Tyrion said at once.

"Ser Meryn is more experienced than his brothers," his uncle responded.

"More cruel, you mean." A bitter edge laced his tone.

"And who would you name?" his father asked curiously. "Your sister claims that Ser Boros is a craven. And the other four are young and newly sworn."

"I admit that Cersei's knowledge of the Kingsguard far surpasses my own. Perhaps you should follow her counsel then." _Although she will likely base her judgment on which one has most recently shared her bed._ "Do I have your leave to go, Father?" The meeting had wearied him, and he had more important matters to think on.

"We will speak of this again."

Tyrion's mind had already turned elsewhere. As he walked to his chambers, his thoughts shifted between his two siblings. His brother would never agree to marry unless Cersei entreated him to do so. He would need to speak to his sister and soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Sansa**

Her new gown was ivory samite and cloth-of-silver, and lined with silvery satin. The points of the long sleeves almost touched the ground when she lowered her arms. And it was a woman's gown, not a little girl's, there was no doubt of that. The bodice was slashed in front almost to her belly, the deep vee covered over with a panel of ornate Myrish lace in dove-grey. The skirts were long and full, the waist so tight that Sansa had to hold her breath as they laced her into it. They brought her new shoes as well, slippers of soft grey doeskin that hugged her feet like lovers. "You are very beautiful, my lady," the seamstress said when she was dressed.

"I am, aren't I?" Sansa giggled, and spun, her skirts swirling around her. "Oh, I am." She could not wait for Willas to see her like this. _He will love me, he will, he must…he will forget Winterfell when he sees me, I'll see that he does._

"My lady?" one of her maids, a slightly older girl with a plain face and a mischievous smile, approached her. "Lord Tyrion has come to see you."

The spinning had left her breathless and off-balance. Sansa smoothed her skirts before gathering the courage to glance at the approaching dwarf. His visit was unexpected, and her heart beat a little faster in fear of unpleasant tidings. _Please let it be Joffrey_, she prayed,_ or news that Robb has finally come for me._

His mismatched eyes did not meet her own. Instead, they stared at the seamstress. "Where is the cloak?" he asked.

"Here, my lord" came the quick reply and the maids brought forth a long cloak of white velvet heavy with pearls. A fierce direwolf was embroidered upon it in silver thread. As they fastened it about her neck with a slender silver chain, dread arose in Sansa like a sword before it pierces flesh.

_A maiden's cloak_. "No," Sansa blurted. "_No_."

"My lady, I am sorry for making this so sudden and so secret," she heard Lord Tyrion say. "My lord father felt it necessary, for reasons of state. You are to marry my brother, Jaime."

"No," she said again, but this time it was barely a whisper. _I'm to marry Willas, I'm to be the lady of Highgarden, please…_

"You need not be afraid, Sansa. My brother would never harm you. He is fiercely loyal towards his kin and a strong protector. Many call him the Lion of Lannister."

_Many call him Kingslayer_. "You can't make me."

Tyrion sighed and rubbed the ugly gash across his face. "You did not ask for this marriage, I know. No more than my brother did. But your father is dead and your brother is a traitor. As a ward of the crown, the king has every right to dispose of your hand."

_My claim_, she thought, sickened. Dontos the Fool was not so foolish after all; he had seen the truth of it. She might have run then if not for the eyes that stared throughout the room. The seamstress quickly averted her gaze at Sansa's look. Her maids belonged to the queen and gazed at her with curiosity, boredom, or scorn. And at the door stood Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Osmund Kettleblack dressed in the white scale armor of the Kingsguard. Tyrion Lannister alone stared at her with pity.

_He is not so bad as the rest of them_, she told herself. Tyrion had rescued her from Ser Boros when Joffrey had ordered her clothes ripped from her body._ Perhaps his brother will be just as kind_. She remembered very little about the Kingslayer. Joffrey had once boasted that he would be a better swordsman than even his uncle. A hazy image of an older looking Joffrey filled her mind. _He killed Jory and hurt Father._ "I did not know that Ser Jaime had returned, my lord," she finally said. Joffrey had told her that Robb had taken him captive. Had he escaped or had something happened to her brother?

"My brother remains in the Riverlands. My lord father will stand in his place," Tyrion explained.

She felt both relief and hope. _He might never return_. The thought gave her strength._ I am a Stark. I can be brave._ "I shall go with you."

Tyrion offered her a thick, blunt-fingered hand, and she slipped her arm through his.

Afterward, she could not remember leaving the room or descending the steps or crossing the yard. It seemed to take all her attention just to put one foot down in front of the other. Ser Meryn and Ser Osmund walked beside her, in cloaks as pale as her own, lacking only the pearls and the direwolf that had been her father's. Joffrey himself was waiting for her on the steps of the castle sept. The king was resplendent in crimson and gold, his crown on his head. "I'm your father today," he announced.

"You're not," she flared. "You'll never be."

His face darkened. "I am. I'm your father, and I can marry you to whomever I like. To _anyone_. You'll marry the pig boy if I say so and bed down with him in the sty." His green eyes glittered with amusement. "Or maybe I should give you to Ilyn Payne, would you like him better?"

Tyrion gave his nephew a dark look. "The pig boy might be pleased, Your Grace, but my lord father would not." He then turned to Sansa and bowed over her hand. "I will see you in the sept, my lady."

She felt a moment of panic as the little man wobbled away, leaving her alone with Joffrey. But the King appeared too vexed by his uncle's words to pay her much attention. He led her to the marriage altar where the Septon waited between the Mother and the Father to join her life to the Kingslayer's. She saw Dontos in his fool's motley, looking at her with big round eyes. Ser Balon Swann and Ser Boros Blount were there in Kingsguard white, but not Ser Loras. _None of the Tyrells are here_, she realized suddenly. But there were other witnesses aplenty; the eunuch Varys, Ser Addam Marbrand, Lord Philip Foote, Ser Bronn, Jalabhar Xho, a dozen others. Lord Gyles was coughing, Lady Ermesande was at the breast, and Lady Tanda's pregnant daughter was sobbing for no apparent reason. _Let her sob_, Sansa thought. _Perhaps I shall do the same before this day is done._

The ceremony passed as in a dream. Sansa did all that was required of her. There were prayers and vows and singing, and tall candles burning, a hundred dancing lights that the tears in her eyes transformed into a thousand. Thankfully no one seemed to notice that she was crying as she stood there, wrapped in her father's colors; or if they did, they pretended not to. In what seemed no time at all, they came to the changing of the cloaks.

As father of the realm, Joffrey took the place of Lord Eddard Stark. Sansa stood stiff as a lance as his hands came over her shoulders to fumble with the clasp of her cloak. One of them brushed her breast and lingered to give it a little squeeze. Then the clasp opened, and Joff swept her maiden's cloak away with a kingly flourish and a grin.

Lord Tywin stood in the place of her betrothed. He wore dark red velvet laced in gold with a sigil of rubies and gold sewn on his breast. His chain of hands glinted in the sunlight straining through the windows. He never smiled during the ceremony, not even when he placed the bride's cloak – a heavy, crimson velvet richly worked with lions and bordered with gold satin and rubies – around her shoulders. She had dreamed of her wedding a thousand times, and always pictured how her betrothed would stand behind her tall and strong, sweep the cloak of his protection over her shoulders, and tenderly kiss her cheek as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp. Her dream was lost like so much else. _Father, Arya, Lady, Septa Mordane, Winterfell_.

The septon raised his crystal high, so the rainbow light fell down upon them. "Here in the sight of gods and men," he said, "I do solemnly proclaim Ser Jaime of House Lannister and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."

.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Jaime did not lose his hand while with the Brave Companions. He has returned to King's Landing a few days before Joffrey's wedding. **

**Chapter 3: Jaime**

The city stank of death. _Yet men claim that we are winning the war_. He could feel the corners of his lips tug into a grim smile.

The northman riding beside him misinterpreted the expression. "Must be a fine sight for you, m'lord."

Jaime laughed briefly and hard. "The city, no," he replied. "But I look forward to seeing my family." _Cersei_, he thought longingly. Every day he imagined the moment when he saw her again. What she would be wearing, how she would smell. She would cry, tell him how much she loved him, and beg him to never leave her again. Their lovemaking would be fierce and passionate. Perhaps another son would come from it.

He entered King's Landing through the Gate of the Gods and led his escort to the Red Keep. With two hundred northmen, a chainless maester, and an ugly freak of a woman at his side, Jaime found he scarcely drew a second look. He did not know whether he ought to be amused or annoyed. "They do not know me," he said to Steelshanks as they rode through Cobbler's Square.

"Your face is changed and your arms as well," Steelshanks replied.

The gates to the Red Keep were open, but a dozen gold cloaks armed with pikes barred the way. They lowered their points as Steelshanks came trotting up, but Jaime recognized the white knight commanding them. "Ser Meryn."

Ser Meryn Trant's droopy eyes went wide. "Ser Jaime?"

"How nice to be remembered. Move these men aside."

It had been a long time since anyone had leapt to obey him quite so fast. Jaime had forgotten how well he liked it.

They found two more Kingsguard in the outer ward; two who had not worn white cloaks when Jaime last served here. _How like Cersei to name me Lord Commander and then choose my colleagues without consulting me_. "Someone has given me two new brothers, I see," he said as he dismounted.

The two knights stared at him in silence, and Jaime felt a moment of irritation that even _they_ did not recognize him.

"We have that honor, ser." The Knight of Flowers finally said after glancing at Ser Meryn.

"The Hand is in the solar with Lord Tyrell and Prince Oberyn. You should speak with him soon, my lord," Ser Meryn said. "Much has changed in your absence."

"So it seems." _Mace Tyrell and the Red Viper breaking bread together? Strange and stranger_. "Is the queen with them as well?"

"No, my lord," Ser Balon answered. "You'll find her with Lady Margaery and her ladies in the Maidenvault. The King is to be married in three days time."

_My son's wedding_. "Find some suitable quarters for Steelshanks and his men until such time as my father can see them," he commanded and then strode into the Keep without a backward glance.

Outside the carved doors of the long tower stood two guards in gilded halfhelms and green cloaks edged in gold satin, the golden rose of Highgarden sewn on their breasts. _Twins_, he thought as he drew near, noting their identical faces.

"Where are _you_ going?" the one on the right asked.

Jaime pointed towards the entrance. "In there, ser. I mean to see the queen."

"Lady Margaery only accepts visitors by invitation," the left one replied.

"I'm not here to see the Lady Margaery," he explained with more patience than he thought possible. "I'm Jaime Lannister, brother to the Queen Regent, and I wish to speak to my sister."

Both knights squinted at him suspiciously before simultaneously looking at each other. _Cersei and I always laughed about being so much alike. Maybe everyone else thought us fools._

"Follow me, ser," the left one said.

He led him to a long room scattered with flowers and ladies. "Wait here," the guard said, but Jaime was already moving towards the farther end of the room. He could see her long trestles, the silky wisps that had escaped her braids. She always slapped his hand when he pulled on them.

She looked over her shoulder, the gazes of the women around her heralding his approach. "Who?" she said, then in a tremulous voice, "Jaime?" Her face paled, and as she rose, her legs shook slightly. "Is it truly you?"

He reached for her arm, but before his hand could touch her, her body flinched away. He let his arm fall. She said nothing else, and he did not know what to say. _I've imagined this moment every day, but in my dreams words were never needed_.

A thin, dark haired girl rose. _This must be the Tyrell girl, Joffrey's betrothed_. "It is good to see you returned, Ser Jaime," she said. "The King will be so pleased to have you at the wedding."

"My nephew will likely have eyes for no one but you, my lady," he replied, the gallant words flowing easily from his tongue. The girl blushed prettily as befit a maiden. _It is fortunate that I had the wench to practice on_. He wondered if a place had been found for Brienne among the northmen or whether she had been offered separate quarters.

His sister had regained her poise. She stared at him with an inscrutable expression. "Dear daughter," she said to Margaery, "if you will excuse us, I wish to speak with my brother."

"Of course, you must be overwhelmed with joy, Your Grace. We could discuss the final preparations on the morrow at the fitting," the girl suggested sweetly.

"Until then." Cersei kissed the girl on the cheek and then swept past him with barely a glance.

Jaime followed her closely. A deep purple silk clung to her figure enticingly, the waist lined with pearls and white thread in floral designs. _Silk tears easily_, he thought, his manhood hardening beneath his breeches.

The walk was longer than he remembered, across the yard, through narrow hallways, and up steep spiral steps. His legs burned with the effort and a sharp pain throbbed in his side. Servants scurried along the sides while lords, ladies, and knights paused to bow to the Queen. He saw the lion of Lannister on many surcoats; but even more bore the arms of the Reach. A striding red huntsman on green, a white rose upon red, a golden flagon on burgundy, three golden harps, ten white hands, a flight of flaming arrows, and the golden rose more often than the rest. None gave him more than a passing glance.

A single guard stood before the doors to the Queen's chambers. "Let no one disturb us," she told him and swept through the door.

Then they were alone. She stood in the middle of the room, fingers clenched. "I waited for you for so long, just wanting you to be here," she finally said, turning towards him. Tears were gathered in her eyes. "It has been so hard without you, Jaime." She choked on the last word, a sob escaping her mouth.

He gathered her into his arms, kissing first her brow and then the corners of her eyes where the tears fell. His mouth followed a well-known path down to her lips, which parted at his insistence. He kissed her until she moaned. Then he lifted her into the red curtained bed, pushing up her silken skirts and the shift beneath. Her fists beat feebly against his chest, and she moaned for him to stop. He never heard her. He undid his breeches and climbed up and pushed her bare white legs apart. One hand slid up her thigh and underneath her smallclothes.

"Hurry," she was whispering now, "quickly, _quickly_, now, do it now, do me now. Jaime, Jaime, Jaime." Her hands helped guide him. "Yes," Cersei said as he thrust, "my brother, sweet brother, yes, like that, yes, I have you, you're home now, you're home now, you're _home_." She kissed his ear and stroked his short bristly hair. Jaime lost himself in her flesh. He could feel Cersei's heart beating in time with his own, and the wetness of seed where they were joined.

But no sooner were they done than the queen said, "Let me up. If we are discovered like this…"

Reluctantly he rolled away and helped her off the bed. "This was folly," Cersei pulled her gown straight. "With Father in the castle…Jaime, we must be careful."

"I am sick of being careful. The Targaryens wed brother to sister, why shouldn't we do the same? Marry me, Cersei. Stand up before the realm and say it's me you want. We'll have our own wedding feast and make more sons and daughters."

She drew back. "That's not funny."

"Do you hear me chuckling?"

"Did you leave your wits at Riverrun?" Her voice had an edge to it. "Joffrey's throne derives from Robert, you know that."

"He could have Casterly Rock, isn't that enough? Let Father sit the throne. All I want is you." He made to touch her cheek, but she knocked his hand aside.

"_Don't_…don't talk like this. You're scaring me, Jaime. Don't be _stupid_. One wrong word and you'll cost us everything." She refused to meet his eyes. "Have you spoken with Father yet?"

"I crossed a thousand leagues to come to you. Don't tell me to leave."

"I'm telling you that much has changed since you left," she said harshly. "Stannis has accused me of adultery, incest, and murder. No one believes him, but these rumors trouble Father more than he cares to admit, and they undermine Joff's claim to the throne." She hesitated then said, "Father spoke of marrying me off again."

"_No_," Jaime spoke the word forcefully.

"He was planning to send me to Highgarden or to Pyke, whichever suited him more. I would have been forced to leave King's Landing, to leave Joff when he needs me more than ever."

_To leave me_, he thought silently.

Cersei stared at him pleadingly. "Don't be angry with me, Jaime. There was no other choice."

"Tell me," he said warily.

Her green eyes, the same as his own, would not meet his gaze. "Father arranged for you to be wed to the Stark girl. The High Septon agreed to perform the ceremony in your absence."

Laughter burst from his lips, harsh and bitter. Cersei's chin rose and irritation twisted her features. "Surely you do not find this amusing?"

"On the contrary, everything about it is ridiculous," he said dismissively, his initial amusement fading into anger. "The Kingsguard are sworn to never marry."

"Joffrey has dismissed you from your oath. Lancel has been appointed, and Ser Meryn Trant has been given the honor of Lord Commander."

_Worse and worse_. "Why?" he finally asked.

"I told you. Father would have forced me to marry again. And Sansa had to be wed before the Tyrells could steal her claim."

_Her claim_. He suddenly remembered the news that had reached them on the road. The wench had barely spoken to him since then, and even he had felt slightly nauseous for a day. "Sansa Stark was a child when I left." He tried to remember the girl, but all he could see was the disapproving stare of Catelyn Stark.

Cersei shrugged, her blond curls swaying with the movement. "She _is_ still a girl but flowered. Not that much younger than I was when Father wed me to Robert. When you bed her…"

"I am not bedding her, Cersei," he said firmly, discomforted by how casually she could think about such matters. "I have never wanted anyone but you."

Her eyes grew round and her hands reached for his arm. "Jaime, please. You must bed Sansa or else the Tyrells might contend the union, and that would only harm Joff more." Her fingers tightened painfully. "It is no different than what I had to suffer with Robert. Promise me, Jaime."

He remembered another oath spoken long ago. He had been much younger then and had sworn before a king. But it was his sister to whom he was truly binding himself. Then as now, he could not deny her. "Once, then," he agreed reluctantly, "to insure the union."

"Of course," she murmured and then moved away. "My maids should be arriving soon to prepare me for dinner and the kitchens must be told to prepare a feast for your return." Her eyes roved over his haggard appearance. "You should bathe and change as well."

The dismissal stung, but he said nothing, merely turned and left. He had almost reached the doors to the White Sword Tower when he remembered that he was no longer a Kingsguard. He spun around and spoke a round of oaths under his breath while walking towards the Tower of the Hand.

"Jaime!"

His head jerked around and down. "Tyrion." He had thought that the sight of his younger brother would bring him joy, but his mood was too foul. "What happened to your nose?"

"A battle axe had the misfortune of meeting it." Tyrion smiled grimly. "Have you spoken to father?"

"A commonly asked question today."

"Cersei, then."

"The Queen was glad for my return." The words left a bitter taste in his mouth. "You have yet to congratulate me on my nuptials, little brother."

"I have a cask of Arbor red stored away for such occasions. Come to my chambers tonight and we will celebrate."

"First I must find _my_ chambers." Jaime resumed his previous path but at a slower pace for his brother's behalf.

Tyrion glanced at the sky. "Lady Sansa is usually in them during this time of day."

Jaime grimaced. He had no desire to meet his child-bride yet.

"She is a sweet girl," Tyrion continued. "She took the news of her brothers' death bravely. If she cries, it is where no one can see her. And when you speak to her, do not be surprised if she rebuffs you. She uses words like a shield."

Jaime glanced at his brother's sober expression. "Perhaps you should have married the girl." His tone was angrier than intended, but at the moment, he did not care whom he blamed for this farce of a marriage.

Tyrion snorted. "Father would never have given me Winterfell, you know. You should speak with him. He must have received word of your return by now." His brother then turned and waddled in the opposite direction.

Jaime sighed. His father had abolished whatever honor he had left, Cersei did not want him, and now Tyrion was angry because of a marriage Jaime had not even asked for. He wondered if he had been foolish to expect more from his family at his return.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Sansa**

_Three more days_, Sansa thought, walking from the godswood to her chambers. _Almost two._ She had prayed that the night would be as chill as this one, so that the sight of her cloak would not raise suspicions as she fled.

Her maids were scurrying about her chambers when she arrived. Their presence was an unpleasant surprise, as she could not remember asking for them. She paused briefly on the threshold, imagining what might happen if she simply did not return.

The door opened, and a young girl stared at her with wide eyes, a basket of linen in her arms. "Here she is!" the girl hollered to the room behind.

The voices stilled. Sansa could see several faces turn in her direction. An older maid, an unpleasant scowl upon her face, snapped a word that caused the others to scurry about the room. The linen girl bumped Sansa as she scooted through the door.

"Where in seven hells have you been?" the older woman grumbled, grabbing Sansa around the wrist to haul her across the room towards a tub. Other maids began to untie the laces along the back of Sansa's dress. "The water is cold now, but it shall make you clean all the same."

Sansa did not know what to say as the gown was pulled from her body along with her slip and smallclothes. Gooseprickles rose along her body as she stepped into the cool water, but the bath was fortunately brief, only long enough to scrub her body and smooth a sweet-scented oil over it.

As her maids helped her carefully step from the tub, she caught sight of the gown draped over the bed. Dread caused her body to shiver violently. "I cannot wear that again," she said softly.

If the maids heard her, they did not answer. A few began to drag the tub from the room while others scurried to dress her in new undergarments. Her hair was unbraided and combed.

Sansa knew why that dress had been chosen, why her maids had been waiting for her. Ever since the news of her brothers' deaths had reached her, she had wondered whether he would return. She had prayed to be gone from King's Landing, but again, the gods had not heard her.

She did not struggle as they completed their tasks, knowing that to do so would be useless. She had no one to defend her, no one to help her escape. Her only hope was to pretend to be a willing wife, so that she could meet Ser Dontos as planned two nights hence.

A knock on the door caused the frantic movement throughout the room to cease. A maid opened it and curtsied as a tall knight with a gold lion on his doublet walked through. His green eyes scanned the room before settling on her. "Leave us," he commanded.

"M'lord." The scowling, old maid had stepped forward, a deferential look upon her face. "We have not finished…"

"You have done well enough," he interrupted. His eyes traveled leisurely over her body, lingering noticeably on her bodice before gazing at her blushing face. "I have traveled a long distance and would like some time to speak with my lady wife."

Sansa lowered her gaze to the ground, mortified by the partially suppressed titters around the room. She could imagine the knowing looks being shared between the girls around her. To her relief, the titters quickly turned to hasty footsteps. She listened until the footsteps had faded and the heavy oak door had been swung closed.

Silence descended between them for a moment. She stared at the silver hem of her gown, willing her hands not to fidget nervously, wondering why he had come and dismissed the maids. The heavy tread of his boots, bridging the space between them, caused her to jerk her chin up.

She had not recognized him at first, with his cropped curls and thin face. Even his voice was different than she had imagined, deeper with a hint of anger. It was odd to think that she had been wed to this man, yet today was the first time he had ever spoken to her.

He paused a few paces from her, a smirk twisting his features into a resemblance of Joffrey's. "Do you know who I am?"

_I am a Stark. I can be brave. _"Ser Jaime Lannister, heir of Casterly Rock."

"And your lord husband, it seems," he added in a dry tone. "How does this marriage suit you, Lady Sansa?"

She did not know what to say without angering him. _If I say that it pleases me, he will think me either a liar or a fool_. "I am pleased to serve the crown," she finally whispered.

He stared at her silently, brow furrowed, before startling her with a burst of laughter. "You are a poor liar, little wife," he said once his chuckling had ceased. A lazy grin appeared on his face. "Come." He extended his arm to her. "Our wedding feast has been prepared, and my lord father has commanded us to attend it."

"Yes, my lord," she said a bit shakily and obediently stepped forward to take the offered arm.

He led her through the castle halls at a swift pace, which caused her heart to beat fast and her breathing to quicken. She stared forward, not wishing to trip on a crack and splay herself over the hard ground.

The feast was held in the Small Hall. There were perhaps fifty guests, Lannister retainers and allies for the most part. The Tyrells, whom Sansa had not seen nor heard from since the wedding, were also present. Margaery glanced at her sadly, but the others seemed determined not to know her. _My friends_, Sansa thought bitterly.

"You are very beautiful tonight, Lady Sansa," Tyrion Lannister said as they were seated next to him.

"It is good of you to say so, my lord," Sansa replied, not knowing what else to say.

"You seem very different from when we last met," Ser Jaime – _her husband _– added, while motioning for a wine server. A woman quickly stepped forward and filled both of their goblets. He swirled the liquid once before taking a long swallow. "How old are you now, Sansa?"

"Thirteen, my lord."

"Thirteen." He gulped more wine. "Younger than the Tyrell girl."

Sansa stared at her hands. "As you say, my lord."

"Do you remember being thirteen, brother?"

"Too well." Tyrion Lannister grimaced. "A foolish age. Every boy dreams of fighting outlaws and saving ladies."

"And what do girls dream of, I wonder?"

Responses flitted through her mind, each one more dangerous than the last. Her eyes were drawn to the center of the table where Joffrey sat, smirking as he spoke to Margaery, no doubt regaling her with his latest cruelty.

"Girls dream of being rescued by tall, handsome knights," Tyrion Lannister said in a sardonic tone, interrupting her tangled thoughts.

Sansa nodded absently in agreement and sipped her wine, wishing to not have to say more. Her taciturn mood did not seem to bother the brothers, who shared tales of past gatherings and humorous memories. The conversation did not stray to recent events, although at one point, Lord Tyrion did mention the disappearance of their young cousin, and her husband's face noticeably hardened.

The feast seemed to go on forever, though most of the food before her remained untouched. She wanted it to be done, and yet she dreaded its end. For after the feast would come the bedding. The men would carry her up to the wedding bed, undressing her along the way and making rude jokes about the fate that awaited her between the sheets, while the women did her husband the same honors. Only after they had been bundled naked into bed would they be left alone, and even then the guests would stand outside the bridal chamber, shouting ribald suggestions through the door. The bedding had seemed wonderfully wicked and exciting when Sansa was a girl, but now that the moment was upon her she felt only dread. She did not think she could bear for them to rip off her clothes, and she was certain she would burst into tears at the first randy jape.

When the musicians began to play, Ser Jaime stood and held out his hand to her. "It is expected of us to lead the dance, my lady."

She accepted his hand, glad for the distraction. She had often daydreamed of how she would dance at her wedding, with every eye upon her and her handsome lord. The moment had finally come, yet the happiness that she had always imagined was replaced by a strange emptiness.

The dance soon offered her a respite from her thoughts, as she lost herself in the steps, in the sound of flute and pipes and harp, in the rhythm of the drum…and surprisingly from time to time in Ser Jaime's arms, when the dance brought them together. He lead her nimbly through the throng of dancers, his motions sure and quick, his hands guiding her from potential mishaps with others coming too close.

He leaned over to her ear, at one such point, and said quietly, "Everyone believes that we have done this before."

She smiled uncertainly. "You are a very skilled dancer, Ser Jaime."

He shrugged. "It is not so different from using a sword, although quite less enjoyable."

The music spun them apart before Sansa could think of a reply. It was Mace Tyrell opposite her, red-faced and sweaty, and then Lord Merryweather, and then Prince Tommen. "I want to be married, too," said the plump little princeling, who was all of nine.

"You shall soon," was all Sansa could say, before the partners changed again. Ser Kevan told her she was beautiful, Jalabhar Xho said something she did not understand in the Summer Tongue, and Lord Redwyne wished her many fat children and long years of joy. And then the dance brought her face-to-face with Joffrey.

Sansa stiffened as his hand touched hers, but the king tightened his grip and drew her closer. "You shouldn't look so sad. My uncle is much older and will soon be gone to fight again, but you'll still have me."

"You're to marry Margaery!"

"A king can have other women. Whores. My father did. One of the Aegons did too. The third one or the fourth. He had lots of whores and lots of bastards." As they whirled to the music, Joff gave her a moist kiss. "My uncle will bring you to my bed whenever I command it."

Sansa shook her head. "He won't."

"He will, or I'll have his head. That King Aegon, he had any woman he wanted, whether they were married or no."

Thankfully, it was time to change again. Her legs had turned to wood, though, and Lord Rowan, Ser Tallad, and Elinor's squire all must have thought her a very clumsy dancer. And then she was back with Ser Jaime once more. He flashed her a mischievous grin before spinning the both of them a little too hard, causing her to stumble and cling onto his chest. Once the music came to an end, she gave him an irritated look, but he merely laughed while a few of the guests around them applauded.

"Walk through that door on the side and wait for me there," he whispered to her, the bitter smell of wine on his breath.

Her body stiffened, but still she nodded meekly. Guests glanced at her curiously as she passed by, and some offered well-meaning words though she could not remember later what was said. Once in the corridor beyond the hall, she leaned her body against the cool, stone wall, her thoughts straying, not to the night ahead, but to her family. _Would they despise me for what I am about to do?_ Her younger sister would never have submitted so easily. As for the others, they had chosen death instead of bending the knee to Joffrey. _Could I be so brave? _

Sansa knew as her husband's eyes met hers what the answer was. _At least, I will not have strange men tearing at my dress and smallclothes tonight_, she thought as he gently intertwined her arm with his. She did not ask what was said, and he did not tell her. Still, she gave him a trembling smile of gratitude as he held the door to their chambers open and hoped that his nod meant that he understood. _Perhaps it will not be so bad. He seems much kinder than Joffrey._

"There is a flagon of wine on the sideboard, Sansa. Pour us both a cup," Ser Jaime said.

"Is that wise, my lord?"

He removed his doublet and tunic with a single tug and smirked at her shocked expression. "You tell me, little wife," he said while beginning to unlace his pants.

Sansa hurriedly turned her face aside and concentrated on filling a goblet for each of them. _It will be easier if I am drunk_. She sat on the edge of the great curtained bed and drained half her cup in three long swallows. No doubt it was very fine wine, but she was too nervous to taste it. It made her head swim.

From the corner of her eye, she could see that her husband had finished removing his clothes already and was drinking deeply from the cup of wine that she had poured. "Would you have me undress, my lord?"

"Yes, unless you wish for me to assist you."

She blushed and began fumbling at her clothes. She had ten thumbs instead of fingers, and all of them were broken. Yet somehow she managed the laces and buttons, and her cloak and gown and girdle and undersilk slid to the floor, until finally she was stepping out of her smallclothes. Gooseprickles covered her arms and legs. She kept her eyes on the floor, too nervous to look at him.

"I wonder if all maidens are as shy as you."

She peeked at his face to see if he was mocking her, but he appeared curious more than anything else.

"My mother told me that a maid should never look upon a man's nakedness," she replied timidly.

"And what did Lady Stark have to say about your husband?"

"That I should please him."

He laughed and began to cross the room to where she stood. "Your mother did not imagine you wed to the likes of me when she said that."

She stared at the floor, knowing what he said was true.

"Tell me, little wife. If you could have any man…or boy…in your bed tonight, who would he be?"

_No one,_ she thought. "You, of course, my lord husband."

This time his laughter was harsh and derisive. "Tyrion spoke truly. You use words like a shield. But words will not defend your maidenhood tonight, little wife."

"As you say, my lord." Her heart thudded harder.

"Jaime," he said firmly. "When we are alone, you shall call me Jaime."

"Yes…Jaime."

"You also will not lie to me."

She thought of Ser Meryn with his large hands and Joffrey with his cruel smile and shuddered. "Yes, my…Jaime."

He sighed. "Get in the bed, Sansa."

She climbed onto the featherbed, conscious of his stare. A scented beeswax candle burned on the bedside table and rose petals had been strewn between the sheets. She pulled the blanket over her breasts, unsure what was expected of her. Would he touch her now? Kiss her? Should she open her legs?

The bed tilted with his added weight. He lay back on his hands, staring at the canopy of fabric above them. "Has any man ever kissed you, Sansa?"

"Yes," she whispered, ashamed at the memory. He waited expectantly. "Joffrey."

He seemed unsurprised. "Any others?"

"No." She would not mention the Hound.

"And did my nephew take any other liberties with you?"

"No," she choked. The thought alone terrified her.

"Good. I happen to be a jealous man." He sat forward and reached towards the side table. "My lord father has commanded me to consummate this marriage." His hand pulled from the drawer a knife. "But I have never cared for my father's demands."

_He intends to kill me_, she thought, her heart clenching painfully.

"I have broken many vows, but surely the gods cannot fault me for ones I never swore myself."

His face turned and his eyes briefly met hers. Then, he pressed the tip of the blade against his upper arm, causing a drop of blood to well up from the tiny cut. He smeared it onto his finger and then began to rub his finger onto the sheet below.

"What are you doing?" she asked, shocked.

"Deflowering you." She thought he was smirking, but when his eyes met hers, his expression was grave. "Sansa, no one needs know what goes on between us. But if the servants who wash our sheets do not see signs of a wedding night, then everyone, including my lord father, shall know that you are still a maiden."

He examined the spot on the bed before walking to the water basin across the room and wiping some of the blood from his arm with a towel. When he turned around, her eyes shifted to gaze at her hands again.

"Then you do not wish to—" She stumbled over the words.

"No," he said somewhat vehemently.

She wanted to cry. She had told herself that she could be brave, that she would not cry. But the relief that filled her now was too much. A tear rolled along one cheek and disappeared on the bedding.

Jaime Lannister did not seem to notice. He returned to the bed, blowing out the candle along the way, and with a sigh, seemed to instantly fall asleep. She listened to him breathe for what seemed like most of the night before falling into her own uneasy dreams.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Jaime**

He awoke before the breaking of dawn from a blessedly deep and dreamless sleep, a rarity for him in recent months. _This bed is too soft, _he thought drowsily, feeling light aches throughout his body. He shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, and lightly nudged the warm body next to him. _Or perhaps I am too hard_. His hand reached down to grasp himself firmly. _Cersei_, he moaned then, the sound rumbling in his chest. He reached for his twin, his arm sliding around her smooth side, desiring to press her body against his, to show her his need, to find release in her warmth.

As his fingers gently squeezed a breast, smaller than expected, his mind awoke fully and he remembered whose body it was who lay beside him. _Sansa Stark_. He jerked from her, and his hand rubbed his face wearily as he realized what he had been about to do. What he had done. _I swore an oath to return her to the North, and instead, I married her to my house._

The girl stirred slightly, a slight sigh escaping her lips. _I should never have agreed,_ he thought, staring down at her._ But then Father would have just married her to another._

Beside him, Sansa lay so still that he could barely see the slight shift of the sheet as her chest rose and fell with each breath. One thin arm was curled over the blankets, and in the dim light, he could slightly discern the bruises that mottled it. He had noticed them the night before as his gaze had wandered curiously over her naked form. Most were faded, but they spanned both her arms and also her sides and chest. In his drunken, tired state, he had given them a sparing thought, but now, his mind puzzled over their origins. Cersei had always come to him after Robert had been angry or drunkenly forceful with her. Remembering how the King's abuse had marred his sister's skin still caused his fingers to ache for the grip of a sword. He was all too familiar with bruises caused by a man's hard grip or a blow by a fist, and Sansa's disturbingly resembled such.

_I should ask Tyrion_, he thought, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. _And not just about my little wife._ The night's feast had seemed almost the same as any other where his little brother and him were concerned. Like always, the Lannister brothers had drunk too much wine and had laughed at jests too obscure and personal for any other to understand. But as the revelries became more and more absurd, and as their servers continued to fill their glasses with more wine, Tyrion's laughs had become more forced, his smile more mocking, and his eyes too grim. And between them, Sansa Stark had stared at her plate, saying nothing.

He had to question several servants before one knew where to lead him as his brother had the misfortune of being placed in a dank corner of Maegor's Holdfast. It only occurred to Jaime after a few sharp knocks and no response that Tyrion might not be in a good state considering the prodigious amount of wine they had shared during the feast.

He debated on whether to leave and return later._ It will be more difficult to speak with him alone once everyone else has awoken._ A day seemed too long to wait for answers.

His mind decided, he opened his brother's door and strode into the solar where he was surprised to find Tyrion awake, albeit red-eyed and weary, and hunched over a yellowed page with faded script.

_Reading about dragons, again_? Jaime wondered, remembering his brother's childhood fascination with the monstrous beasts. "There are cells in Riverrun more cozy than this," he said, gazing around at the bare stone walls and floor, while his brother stared at him with an irritated expression. "Who did you offend this time?"

The corners of Tyrion's mouth twisted down. "Cersei was concerned for the comfort of Joffrey's wedding guests. The Red Keep is apparently overrun with roses if you were unable to smell the stench." His head tilted slightly. "And how is your lady wife this morning?"

Jaime hesitated, unsure of how much he wished to share with his brother. "You spoke truly about the girl," he began slowly, choosing his words with care. "Her septa trained her well in courtesy."

"Indeed," Tyrion replied, his gaze discomforting, "I imagine she faced her wifely duty with as much enthusiasm as she does with everything else."

His brother's tone of voice rankled Jaime slightly. "I wouldn't know," he admitted.

Tyrion stared at him silently a moment longer before sighing in relief. "Good." His hands massaged his forehead. "Sansa Stark has already suffered enough at Lannister hands."

The comment stung his pride slightly. After all, over the years, there were many women who had made their interest in him very clear, white cloak or not. Jaime ignored the urge to make an inappropriate quip in reply and instead asked, "In what ways?"

Tyrion motioned for him to sit. "Joffrey," he replied bluntly. "She fears him. He torments her without any provocation, and he has only become more bold."

"Torments her how?" Jaime said calmly, feeling oddly detached from and unsurprised by his brother's words. He could still see the mottled flesh on Sansa's too thin frame.

"He threatens her constantly. He ordered Eddard Stark executed before Sansa's eyes, after promising the girl that her father would live, and then forced her to gaze upon her father's rotting head. If she disobeys even his slightest whim or acts in a manner less than pleasing to him, he orders the Kingsguard to beat her."

_My son_, Jaime thought, troubled by the images brought to his mind. _No, he was always Robert's son. He was only your seed. _The beatings reminded him of Robert, but even the king had not treated his sister with such cruelty. "And no one has spoken against this, yet?"

His brother grimaced. "Cersei is blind to what he truly is. Father has only now begun to realize, but he believes that the boy can be taught. And I have done what I can, but it has not been enough to protect her. If it was in my power, I would send her away from here." A thoughtful look crossed his brother's face. "You, however, are her lord husband. Surely Father would not object if you asked to take her with you to Casterly Rock."

Jaime still remembered the harsh words spoken between him and his father the day before. _You are the heir to Casterly Rock, _his father had said. _That is where you should be._ "Father would agree," Jaime reluctantly admitted to his brother. "He wishes for me to take Tommen as well, as a ward and squire, once the wedding is past."

"Will you?" Tyrion stared at him intently with his mismatched eyes.

Jaime did not answer. His brother would know his reasons for staying, and if he judged him for it, Jaime did not care. He would do what he could for Sansa Stark, but it would always be Cersei whom he loved more than any other.

"I see," his brother finally said softly. "You will want to appoint new maids for Sansa. Her current ones belong to Cersei."

Jaime nodded slightly, while Tyrion turned his gaze dismissively to the script before him. "There is another matter to discuss," Jaime began awkwardly. Tyrion did not bother to raise his face. "Catelyn Stark seemed to think that you tried to murder her son."

"She expressed something similar to me. To think that I would one day rue being mistaken for you."

The accusation stung. "I didn't hire a man to sneak into the boy's room and slit his throat."

"I know." His brother's hand clenched into a fist. "Joffrey did."

The declaration confirmed what Jaime had already begun to suspect, but still, the thought sickened him nonetheless. He rose and walked from the room and soon found himself in the frigid chill of the morning, standing before a smithy. _I need new armor, _he thought numbly, hearing the sound of hammer on steel.

The armorer stammered a greeting when he entered. Jaime explained quickly what he wanted and then waited patiently as the man took his measurements. Meanwhile, a young apprentice was sent to scrounge whatever he could find to fit Jaime until his new suit was completed.

_This shall do for now, _he thought, feeling the comfortable weight of helm and hauberk, breastplate and gauntlet against his skin. He paid the man handsomely and promised even more once the rest was delivered. _Now to find a worthy opponent._

Even before he stepped into the practice yard, he knew whom he wished to see, but the wench was nowhere in sight. Again, he had to search the Keep to find a servant who recognized his description. After an awkward mishap where he was introduced to a heinous cousin of some Fossoway, he finally arrived at Brienne's quarters, only to discover that the girl was not present. _I will just wait_, he thought and settled his fully armored body into one of the room's chairs.

Sitting in armor was far from comfortable, however, and he had never been the most patient of men. He was pacing back and forth in the small space when the wench finally opened the room and gasped in surprise.

"I see suitable arrangements have been made for your stay," he said pleasantly to fill the silence.

Brienne's teeth clacked harshly as she shut her mouth. "Kingslayer," she greeted in reply.

He could see the anger and betrayal in her large blue eyes, and against his better judgment, found himself explaining everything. "Until my father allows her to leave, she should be protected by my name," he finished much later.

Brienne had been graciously silent, but he could see the distrust still in her eyes. "You swore an oath," she replied stubbornly, "as did I, to return Lady Sansa to her mother."

"You swore an oath to a woman who is now dead. If you brought the girl north, do you know what would happen to her? She would be forced to wed some northern lord. Likely one who has recently sworn his allegiance to the crown. Would that satisfy your honor?"

"You're the King's uncle," the wench replied, slightly hopeful. "If you vouched for Lady Sansa's loyalty…"

"She would never be allowed to leave without a husband," he said wearily, tired by the wench's obstinate belief in all that was honorable and good. "I didn't come to talk about my lady wife," he said, forestalling her next words.

"Then why are you here?" she asked, sounding truly confused.

He knew how foolish he sounded even before he said the words. "I need someone to spar with."


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks everyone for all of the encouraging reviews! I really appreciate your feedback and patience.**

**Disclaimer: ASOIAF belongs to the amazing fantasy writer, George R.R. Martin.**

**And now for chapter 6, in which Sansa and Cersei have some (awkward) girl talk…**

**Chapter 6: Sansa**

"Your presence is requested by the queen," Ser Osmund said as her maids finished dressing her. The burly knight had barged into her rooms unannounced, demanding that she hurry in her preparations. "You seem decent enough. I would not keep Her Grace waiting if I were you."

Sansa nodded meekly. The queen had ignored her since the day the High Septon had bound Sansa's life to House Lannister. _Now that her brother has claimed me, she cannot pretend any longer that I do not exist._ She hoped desperately that she would not be the only one breaking her fast with the queen.

She was reaching to grasp Ser Osmund's arm when, from the corner of her eye, she noticed a servant girl carrying her sheets. A brownish stain, ugly in the light, marred the white cotton.

Ser Osmund noticed the stain as well and smirked at her unpleasantly. "It must not be true what is said about Northern girls. That the saddle takes your maidenheads."

Sansa colored and looked straight ahead. "The queen is waiting for me, ser," she reminded him in a quiet but firm voice.

His black brows rose slightly, but he said nothing more. Sansa matched his long stride and gazed at the ground, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched. The halls were more crowded than usual with Joffrey's guests. She could hear a group of girls giggling nearby, and it seemed as though several conversations paused briefly at their passing.

_The entire castle must think that I am no longer a maid._ Strangely, the thought comforted her a little. _Only Ser Jaime and I know the truth. Not even the queen or Joffrey knows._

Ser Balon Swann stood guard by the queen's chambers. "My lady, the queen awaits within," he said to her while swinging the door open. Sansa smiled bravely at him in response. He was one of the few who had never hit her, and from what she had seen of him, she thought him a true knight – courteous, kind, and skilled with lance and sword. He was young too. But with a face so common that it was not surprising that she was never able to bring him to mind. '_How could such a man agree to serve such monsters?'_ was her thought as she walked into the brightly lit solar.

A breeze tumbled through the chambers, causing the heavy, red curtains to slightly flutter. In the center, a table was adorned with an array of gold platters with enough food to feed ten people, but only two chairs had been positioned around it. Cersei was seated in one, her eyes staring vacantly out a window, her fingers clenched around the stem of a goblet.

Ser Osmund positioned himself in a corner of the room, leaving her to stand awkwardly at the entrance. "Your Grace," she began hesitantly and curtsied.

Cersei slowly uncurled her fingers and motioned for her to come forward. "Come, sit beside me, Sansa."

Sansa quickly sat and folded her hands tightly in her lap. From this position, she could glimpse the queen's face. Dark shadows marred the pale skin below the queen's eyes, and her golden curls hung limply rather than arranged in an elaborate braid. _She did not sleep well last night_, Sansa realized.

Cersei's eyes turned to stare at her critically. "Once, I had thought to call you daughter, but it seems that we are to be sisters instead," she began. Her head tilted slightly while her lips twisted into a grimace.

"Yes, Your Grace." Sansa lowered her eyes to stare at the food before them. Breads, full of grains and different types of dried fruit, were arranged around the table with bowls of butter and honey intertwined. An assortment of meats and cheeses had been laid in the center, and a flagon of ale and a flagon of wine stood on each side of it. Her stomach grumbled softly, but in the sudden quiet, it seemed quite loud. Sansa's cheeks colored. "Forgive me, Your Grace," she said, while placing a hand on her tummy. "I did not eat much the other night."

"Of course you did not." Cersei motioned for the servants to place food upon their plates. They hurried to obey. "I hope my brother was not too wroth to have his little wife called away," she said in a light tone.

Sansa shook her head and began buttering a piece of bread. "Ser Jaime had already left when your summons came."

"Jaime has always been an early riser. No doubt he wished to practice his swordplay while you slept." Cersei took a sip from her goblet. "You bled last night, I have been told."

Sansa gripped her knife tighter. In her mind, she could still see the ugly stain.

"My brother can be thoughtless at times," Cersei continued. "Do you feel any discomfort when sitting or walking?"

"A little, your grace." To her relief, the lie slipped easily from her lips.

"You poor thing." Cersei gave her a pitying look. "I will send Maester Pycelle to you. He has a salve which heals and alleviates such discomfort."

"You are kind, your grace."

"I am a woman." The smile did not reach Cersei's eyes. "It was not as _lovely_ as the singers would have you think, was it? The first time is always the most painful. And then after," she shrugged, "depends on the man. Did your mother ever speak to you of these matters?"

_I was eleven when I last saw my mother_, Sansa wished to say. "Only a little, Your Grace."

"My mother died when I was young. Long before I wed Robert. I still remember how lonely I felt having no woman to speak to. There is much I had to learn on my own." The queen leant forward and lowered her voice, so only Sansa could hear. "Men are very simplistic creatures, Sansa, with basic lusts. If you want anything from a man, then you must first learn how to please him."

It was silent for the span of several heartbeats. The queen seemed to be expecting a response. "What would please Ser Jaime?" Sansa asked quietly, hesitantly.

Cersei reached forth a hand and lightly stroked her cheek. Sansa flinched at the touch. "You are such a sweet thing. So innocent and young." The queen's voice had a wistful undertone.

Sansa's stomach twisted in disgust and a little fear. _I have a mother, _she wished to blurt. _I have a sister. And you shall never be either to me._ Instead, she grasped her goblet, took a sip of wine, and then calmly asked, "Was it hard for you at first? To be married to the king?"

Cersei's smile became brittle. "At first, yes." Her green eyes smoldered with some strong emotion. "You must know that Robert loved your aunt more than he ever loved me."

It took Sansa a moment to remember the name. _Lyanna_. "My father did not speak of her often. Everyone says that she was beautiful."

"And to Robert, the beauty of a dead woman was always more desirable than the love of a live one." Cersei tossed her head back and laughed lightly, as though she were sharing an amusing memory. "On our wedding night, Robertstumbled into our bed, stinking of wine and sweat. He did not glance at my face once, and when it was over," she paused briefly, her gaze burning into Sansa's own, "it was _her _name he moaned." The queen raised her goblet, swallowed deeply, and then said, "It is cruel to be bound to a man who loves another. Do you not think so?"

Sansa stared at her with wide eyes. _Does she desire for me to pity her? _"It is cruel to love one who does not love you in return, Your Grace," she answered honestly, remembering Ser Loras and his red rose, which to her was a promise and to him a meaningless gesture.

The queen's smile faded. "Perhaps you are less of a fool than I once took you for. You have certainly learned your lessons well." She delicately plucked a dark purple grape from the bundle on her plate and placed it in her mouth. "These ones are my favorite," she said while grasping another. "A gift from our friends in the South. You must try a few."

Sansa obediently lifted one from her plate. The grape's soft skin burst in her mouth, spewing its juice over her tongue. _Too sweet_, she thought and tried to scrape its lingering taste from her tongue. But still it clung stubbornly and even a sip of the sour red wine could not wash it away.

"You should eat more, sweetling," Cersei urged, so Sansa nibbled on her buttered slice of bread until finally the queen dismissed her. As Sansa rose, Cersei said, "You know you may come to me if ever you have need to speak to another woman, Sansa."

"Thank you, Your Grace." She curtsied and forced herself to walk slowly from the room. Once in the corridor, though, she quickly followed the path back to her rooms. _Two days more,_ _two days, two days. _The repetition calmed her. She would grab her cloak and visit the godswood. Ser Dontos would likely not be there, but at least she would not be bothered. And she would be able to think.

Her cloak was in the plain, wood chest in her bedchamber. She strode through the solar and under the arch, which separated the rooms. The smell struck her first. Sweat mingled with the scent of rainwater and crushed petals. Then, her gaze met that of her husband's, and she halted abruptly.

Ser Jaime lay reclined in a tub, his clothes haphazardly thrown around him. A smirk slowly stretched across his face. "Care to join me, little wife?" He stretched his arms along the rim to lift himself from the water.

Sansa shook her head jerkily. "No, thank you, my lord." She cast her eyes down as she skirted along the edge of the room to the chest. "I came for my cloak." Her fingers grasped the thick wool lined with fur and pulled the heavy garment out. It was one of the few items she still retained from when she first arrived, and she refused to part with it even though the hem barely reached past her knees now.

"Are you leaving the Keep?" He seemed more amused than concerned.

Sansa paused at the threshold. "No, my lord." She felt reluctant to tell him more but knew that he would only be suspicious if she lied. "I like to visit the godswood."

"To pray?"

She nodded. Her fingers were clenched tightly around the edges of the cloak. "May I leave?"

From the corner of her eye, she could see him shrug. "Only if you promise to be friendlier tonight, little wife."

Sansa flushed. "Yes, my lord." She did not wait for his reply but turned and fled. Behind her, she could hear his laughter, mocking and loud.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Jaime**

The Kingsguard standing beside Cersei's door was unknown to him. _Another one of my sweet sister's appointments_, he thought, slightly dismayed. He may have once soiled his white cloak, but at least he had looked good while doing it. He suppressed the urge to smirk at the brutish face and instead nodded pleasantly. "Ser, is the queen within?"

The knight's bushy brows furrowed together, and he gave Jaime a puzzled grin. "Her Grace is not expecting any visitors tonight."

Jaime smiled broadly, flashing his full set of teeth. "She is expecting _me_." It was not strictly true, but he doubted his sister would mind the lie. When the knight continued to stare at him with a blank, wide smile, Jaime raised his brow and stared pointedly toward the doors.

The knight shrugged his broad shoulders, said, "Wait here," and stepped within. After a few moments, he opened the door wide.

Jaime ignored the sly smile the man gave him as he walked by. He paused in the entryway, waiting for the door to close firmly before walking through the solar to the inner chambers. He found his sister sprawled in a chair, clothed in a red satin dressing gown. He took a moment to peruse her form. His breathing was slightly erratic when his eyes finally met hers.

_Gods, I have been away for far too long. _He ignored the slightly uncomfortable, slightly pleasurable movement occurring below and focused on pouring some wine. "Sister," he began, "your taste in knights is sorely lacking."

Cersei rolled her eyes at his teasing tone. "You met Ser Osmund?"

"Ser Osmund…?"

"Kettleblack. Tyrion found him and tried to use him to spy on me." She held her goblet toward him, and he obligingly filled it. "I had to sway him to my service."

Jaime took a swallow of the wine and grimaced slightly. Cersei always enjoyed wine a little too sweet for his tastes. "I have heard it said that any man can rise to the position of Kingsguard if he is good enough. Princes, lords, bastards, hedge knights. And now even a mercenary, thanks to your efforts."

Cersei was staring at him with a small smile on her face. "You sound as though you miss it."

"I miss being near you," he replied without hesitation and reached over to playfully tug on the braid hanging over one shoulder. "Come here."

She rose a bit unsteadily, and he had to swoop to catch her in his arms. "Why did you marry her?" she asked, the strong scent of wine on her breath.

_She is drunk._ He frowned at the thought. His sister had always scorned the drunken habits of most of the court, the late king in particular. He placed both of their goblets on a nearby table and then gathered her in his arms. "Because you begged me to," he said while carrying her to the bed. "And I have never been able to refuse you." He settled them both on the red coverlet.

Her fingers traced his cheeks, flowed over his lips, and traveled further down. "I did not know it would hurt so much. Knowing that you are with her is even worse than the feeling of being married to Robert."

He scoffed. "Nothing is worse than you being married to that whoremonger." He smothered her reply with a forceful kiss. When he finally released her, they were both breathing hard.

"Hold me," she said, her eyes full of fear and uncertainty.

His arms tightened around her comfortingly. He listened as her breathing changed from ragged to even and then waited a little longer to insure that she slept. It was dangerous to stay too long in her chambers, he knew. He kissed her lightly on the forehead before reluctantly disentangling himself.

Ser Osmund was still standing guard outside, but Ser Meryn Trant had now joined him. Their conversation stilled at Jaime's appearance.

"My lord, congratulations on your recent nuptials," Ser Meryn said after a long, uncomfortable pause.

Jaime tilted his head toward the sour knight with rust-red hair and smiled. He had hoped to see his once sworn brother again. "Ser Meryn," he replied in a deceptively genial tone, "I have heard it said that my nephew made use of you to chastise my _wife_. You did your job well, ser. She still bears the marks."

"I did as his grace commanded me."

"Henceforth, you will temper that obedience. My sister is Queen Regent. My father is the King's Hand. My brother is the Master of Coin, and I am heir of Casterly Rock. Obey us. None other."

Ser Meryn stared back stubbornly. "It is treason to not obey the king's commands."

"The king is fourteen. Your first duty is to protect him, which includes protecting him from himself. Use that ugly thing you keep inside your helm. If Joffrey wants you to saddle his horse, obey him. If he tells you to kill his horse, come to me."

"Aye, my lord." Ser Meryn's face became glum as usual. Beside him, Ser Osmund's smile seemed carved into his cheekbones. Jaime's gaze was shifting between them when raucous laughter, echoing along the corridor, drew his attention.

Two men, brothers by the look of them, stumbled around the corner, holding each other upright. "Osmund," one yelled through a beard, coarse and dark. "Still standing here guarding that cunt?"

Jaime felt his fingers tighten. "Who are your friends, Ser Osmund?" he asked calmly.

Ser Osmund shifted his weight nervously. "My brothers, my lord," he replied stiffly. "Ser Osfryd and Ser Osney."

_Every fool, liar, drunkard, and craven has been knighted while I was away. _"Ah, I see the resemblance now. And tell me, ser, do you love your brothers?"

"Aye, my lord."

"Then I suggest you remove them from my presence."

Ser Osmund nodded and stepped forward, only to be shoved roughly back by one of the men. He stumbled over his white cloak and cursed both eloquently over the sound of their laughter.

Jaime had seen enough. He turned to leave when one of the brothers, he could not tell which, finally glimpsed his face and foolishly yelled, "Kingslayer!"

Whatever patience he had fled. He grabbed the man's tunic and twisted it in his grip. "I would guard my mouth if I were you, ser."

The man stared at him arrogantly, his eyes clouded with too much drink. "Going back to your sweet wife? Heard that you fucked her good last night. Although it was a shame you left the feast early." He grinned broadly, showing a few gold teeth. "All the men were looking forward to seeing your wife's tits again."

Jaime did not even think before slamming a fist into the man's smug mouth. A sharp crack told him that something had broken. Both Ser Osmund and Ser Meryn had to pry him from the knight's fallen body. Once he had calmed, he shrugged their grips from his arms and strode away. It was not until he reached his chambers and stretched his hand for the door handle that he saw the blood on his knuckles.

His sword hand began to throb._ At least the wench will be pleased when I am unable to stand against her tomorrow._ He stared at his other hand and gave a mirthless smile. _Or maybe I could finally learn how to fight with my left? _He shook his head, still smiling and opened the door.

The embers in the hearth cast enough light for him to grope his way wearily towards the bed, his fingers clumsily loosening ties and tugging off clothes along the way, exposing his skin to the bite of cold air.

Sansa lay curled on her side, perched on the edge of the bed, a blanket scrunched tightly around her. _Not as cold-blooded as you would have me think, little wife, _he thought as he slid into the bed beside her_._ He was relieved to find her asleep. The day had been long and full of disturbing thoughts and trying conversations. Even now he found laughter bubbling from his depths at the strangeness of it all. _Everything has changed. _When he had left King's Landing, Robert had still been king, and Eddard Stark was his Hand. _Now, a boy is king. My father is the Hand. Tyrion hires spies but acts like a knight. Cersei drinks and cries. And I am wed to a child._

_A very frightened child, _he realized a bit more soberly. He had found her shyness amusing last night and earlier today. He was accustomed to women approaching him boldly, unashamed of their intentions. Cersei, for as far back as he could remember, had never blushed at his gaze or trembled at his smile.

'_She fears you_,' he could hear Tyrion say in a disapproving tone, '_because you are a knight and a Lannister. Neither have shown much kindness to her_.'

_I could be kinder to her. _He wondered idly if Catelyn Stark would approve.

**Author's Note: I broke this night into two chapters. In the next chapter, Sansa has a nightmare, and Jaime wakes her up.**


	8. Chapter 8

**This is part II of the second night. I hope you enjoy it!**

**Chapter 8: Jaime**

He was dreaming when a muffled cry caused him to jerk awake. His hand immediately reached for his sword, which was not beside him, before his senses reminded him that he was in his bedchamber, not in a camp tent. He rubbed both hands over his face and took a few shaky breaths.

The bundle of blankets beside him trembled. _Is she crying?_ He could hear nothing but the crackling of wood in the grate and the laughter of some men beyond the walls. He propped his head against a hand and considered whether to try to comfort her or not. _I could ask if she is well. _His lips twitched at the thought. _She would likely rebuff me with a few pretty words and a slew of 'my lord'._ A yawn escaped him. _And then I could sleep again._

His mind lingered on the thought, but still he did nothing but stare. _I wonder how most lords comfort their wives. _His father had never discussed with him the intricacies of marriage beyond explaining to him the duty of a lord to provide an heir and asking if he knew how to accomplish such with a woman. Jaime had been thirteen at the time and had stammered a response adequate enough to be spared further discussion. He, of course, knew more than a boy his age should have due to his and Cersei's years of exploration. His father must have taken his nervousness as a sign of youth rather than fear.

Sansa's body twitched slightly and then lay still. _By now, Cersei would have asked me to hold and kiss her._ His mind always drifted to his sister when dealing with other women and girls. She was the only woman he had ever tried to understand. _Would Sansa Stark like that? Not by me, certainly, but perhaps by another._ She had claimed the other night to not desire any man. _She does not long for a lover but for a father to hold her or for a mother to listen to her fears._ Her father was now a spiked head, and her mother, a rotting corpse.

He reached his hand over and gently placed it on her arm. It was slick with sweat. "Sansa?"

One of her legs jerked and almost hit him. He leaned over to glimpse her face. Her eyes were shut while her mouth was slightly open. A moan issued from her parted lips. _She is dreaming, _he realized. He began to shake her. She awoke with a start, her hand reaching to clench his while her body took in gasping breaths. He winced slightly at her tight grip on his bruised knuckles.

Her blue eyes, wide with fear, met his and then flitted to stare at their entwined fingers. She released them instantly. "My lord? Did I wake you?" She sounded embarrassed.

He nodded and sat up. The blankets pooled around his hips. "Do your dreams often trouble you?" he asked while rubbing his throbbing hand.

"No," she replied, her eyes lowered.

_She is lying_, he noted idly_. _"What did you dream of tonight?" It was a foolish question, he realized once said. The girl probably had more ghosts than him.

She drew her knees to her chest and rested her head on top. "They caught me, and I couldn't escape," she whispered as though afraid that the shadows would hear.

His lips twitched. "The blankets can be quite dangerous." He motioned to her still entangled limbs. She stared into the distance, her expression blank. "You do not laugh much," he commented.

"Does my lord wish for me to laugh?"

"No." He sighed. _I am doing this wrong. _"Who caught you? In your dream?"

"My lord should not be concerned," she replied demurely. "It was a silly dream."

He felt his patience thin. "Sansa," he spoke like he would to one of his cousins when a lesson needed to be learned. "I believe _your lord_ said the other night to call him Jaime. I also told you to speak truthfully to me. So far you have done neither."

Her mouth tightened slightly. "I do not wish to speak of it."

_That, at least, was honest. _"Would you like some water?" he asked while swinging his legs onto the floor and striding across the cold stone to the pitcher. "I have a sudden thirst."

"A cup would be welcome."

She did not look at him as he returned. When he held one of the cups toward her, she almost knocked it from his hand because her eyes were fixated on her knees.

"The gods will not smite you blind if you stare at a naked man despite what your septa may have told you," he said as he slid under the blankets again.

Her lips twitched slightly. She took a long swallow from the cup.

He finished his in three large gulps and tossed it to the floor. It made a jarring clatter before spinning to a stop. "I spoke with Ser Meryn today. He will not harm you again." Her eyes darted toward him, dark and unreadable. "How did your day fare?"

A brief shudder ran through her body. "The queen asked me to break my fast with her."

He felt his back straighten slightly. His sister had not mentioned that. "What did she wish to speak with you about?"

Even in the darkness, he could see her blush. "It was woman's talk. My lord would not be interested."

He grimaced slightly. He should have expected this knowing his twin. "Did she ask you about last night?"

Sansa gave a jerky nod. "She thinks that we," she stumbled over the words, "that I am no longer a maid."

"Someone told her about the blood." He would ask about replacing his wife's maids after his bout with Brienne. He disliked deceiving his twin, but the thought of her probing into his relationship with Sansa made him uncomfortable.

"She also sent Maester Pycelle to give me a salve. He wished to check on me, but I refused him. He was very persistent though and said that he would speak with you."

Jaime shrugged, pretending nonchalance to keep the girl from worrying. "I doubt he will. He has probably already forgotten." _Unless Cersei chooses to remind him. _He leaned back and cushioned his head against his hands. He was too tired to analyze his sister's intentions tonight. A yawn escaped his mouth.

From half-lidded eyes, he could see Sansa yawn in reply. One of her fingers traced imaginary patterns on the bed sheet. "It was very brave of you. To cut yourself for me," she murmured against her knees.

His lips twitched. _So my little wife likes chivalry._ He seized her hand and brought it to his mouth to kiss gently. "It is a knight's duty to bleed for lovely maidens."

She tried to snatch her hand away, but he held it firmly. "You do not believe that," she said accusingly after a few tugs.

"Do you?"

She turned her face from him. "I once did."

Her fingers were trembling faintly in his but not from fear. "Your hand is freezing," he said, a little concerned, while using his other hand to rub it. "Are you cold?"

She nodded her head. He reached to tuck the sheets more firmly around her and was surprised to find them damp. "You sweated through the blankets," he commented.

"I had a bit of a fever earlier. It must have broken during the night."

He moved over slightly and patted the dry space in the middle of the bed. "Come sleep on my side. There is room for both of us."

Her eyes opened wide, and she shook her head adamantly. "I am fine, my lord."

He sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair. Near the bed, he could see the pants and tunic that he had worn earlier. "Take off your shift," he said while leaving the bed to grab both. He threw the tunic to her and shrugged into his pants.

Once he had finished lacing them, he glanced over to see her still sitting with her knees scrunched against her chest. One hand was clenched around his tunic while the other traced the red and gold sigil embroidered on its front.

He lay along the edge of the bed with his back to her and his eyes closed. Cloth rustled beside him, and finally, the heat of her back settled against his. He smiled and slept.


End file.
